


Down by the Riverside (in the old photographs of us )

by lechatnoir



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Summer Camp, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-15
Updated: 2013-08-15
Packaged: 2017-12-23 13:24:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lechatnoir/pseuds/lechatnoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU where Crowley and Aziraphale shared a cabin when they were away at Good Apples Camp, and a few snippets in a scrapbook that they made together, that kept them company through the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Down by the Riverside (in the old photographs of us )

**Author's Note:**

> for tumblr user klarsy who basically inspired me with this AU idea uwu!!
> 
> you can find me on tumblr @ chrysanthemumskies

i.

It’s something like the roar of the rain in your ears on a hot summer day, or the sound of the crickets chirping away in the grass thickets.

 

And then comes the rough feeling of old worn out hardcover books jammed in every nook and cranny of the bed.

 

_Bunk_ bed, to be exact.

In fact there are too many books in the cabin.

Far too many.

(Crowley thinks, at the tender age of 15 that he wants to burn them all on fire while listening to Queen because that’s what all the cool kids do these days.) 

For Crowley, it’s quite annoying, trying to sleep on all these lumpy, hard boned books.

( _They don’t even smell nice !_

How can you even like smelly old books?) 

Aziraphale seems to sleep like the dead, but Crowley can’t help and mutter out loud – “I think these books are _suffocating_ me. You’re _planning_ on killing me aren’t you, Aziraphale?”

He waits, and waits, and waits, staring up at the top bunk and reading the titles of the old books stuffed there between the wooden beam and the mattress - _The Lord of the Flies_ , _Cats Cradle_ , _Animal Farm_ , _Slaughterhouse Five_ \- and mutters again 

“Yep, _definitely_ planning on killing me. I can just _feel_ the books draining the life out of me.” 

He’s met with more silence before gradually falling asleep and there’s a smile on his face.

(Although he’ll never acknowledge that he isn’t really bothered by Aziraphale’s strange obsession with books because at this golden age , they should be talking about girls and stuff like that and maybe smashing some windows and getting drunk without the counselors catching them.

You know, like what the rest of the population of Good Apples Camp was doing. ) 

 

ii.

Aziraphale wakes up and there’s a yawn and some stretching before he rubs his eyes and puts on his glasses and gets down from his bed, and the sun’s shining through their cabin window and he’s about to greet Crowley good morning because that’s the polite thing to do when he trips over something.

It’s in a brown pot and there’s green leaves sticking out of it and it takes a few seconds until it clicks in his brain that there’s a plant that he had tripped over and knocked over and he mutters a “Oh gosh oh gosh oh no! I hope you’re alright!” 

And of course that sounds weird to the normal onlooker because it’s simply a plant but Aziraphale thinks the plant’s quite nice – dashing even, so he moves and fixes his glasses and moves to place the plant on the windowsill.

And he’s about to move and get up until he gets squirted in the face with a water gun and it’s Crowley cackling as Aziraphale sputters and says “What was that for?!” 

Crowley only smirks and says “You hurt Lisaveta!”

“You _named_ a plant _Lisaveta_?”

“It seemed like a fitting name.”

 

“But plants don’t even have a gen—“

Crowley squirts him again and Aziraphale grumbles and moves the plant back to its place near the bed, before noticing that the entire bed was surrounded in potted plants.

“Crowley, did you _steal_ these from arts and crafts?”

“Nah, course not.”

“ _Crowley._ ”

“What, I didn’t! They were lying outside in the recycle pile.”

“You can’t even _recycle_ terracotta pots what are you –“

“Didn’t steal them . They were uh, gifts.”

(He does mention it, a few weeks later, as they sat on the dock by the lake that he may have beat up some of the other kids because of what they were saying about Aziraphale.

Not like he cares – it’s for his reputation, really.

That’s what he muttered, looking away out into the water and he’s definitely not blushing or the corner of his mouth is smiling when Aziraphale looks up with him, eyes wide and there’s a smile on his face and no, Crowley _isn’t_ having one of those sappy 

_' I may or may not have a crush on my cabin mate who’s also probably my only friend but uh thanks, I guess'_ – sort of moments. 

 

Cause you know, whoever you share a cabin with , your reputation’s on the line and Crowley doesn’t have time for sappy, feeling-oriented things.

It just _wasn’t_ in him, you know.

Still, that doesn’t stop him from moving his hand and curling his fingers around Aziraphale’s hand and he does the same and it’s _alright_ , maybe.

The crickets are really annoying but he wouldn’t change that little bit for anything.

Except maybe setting those crickets on fire okay, they were _really_ annoying and getting on his nerves. ) 

iii.

Somewhere, somehow, the summers blurred together until they had grown up, and it was too old for them to be cabin mates, so they had been counselors, because it wasn’t like they didn’t exchange phone numbers, and constantly talked to each other via text and e-mail and other things.

(Sometimes Aziraphale would write Crowley letters, once he had gotten into college and had gone away for a few months, and instead of being able to cope with being alone in their shared apartment 

(because that was the logical thing to do, move in with your best friend who you also hated at times but shh no it was alright – and mope and blast Queen and AC/DC in the wee hours of the morning and try not to think of how things would be better if they were here with you ) 

Crowley had gotten a cat – a stray black cat who he had named Cat because that seemed like the perfectly cool name to give a cat- and then the two of them proceeded to wait for Aziraphale and his letters , or when he would actually return from his trip.) 

Sometimes they think back to the summer when they were fifteen, and the little lake that they used to spend time together at, and the little signs they had made, little signals and a private language that only the two of them knew about.

There’s a picture in a scrap book that they had made not too long ago, and there’s a picture for the time that they’ve spent together.

“Huh, guess we gotta add you in here too, Cat.” 

Crowley mutters, taking the camera and posing with the cat, who had taken quite the liking to him and who was currently trying to headbutt his chin while being a purring ball of fur and fluff.

“Alright alright, someone’s needy hm?” He mutters, scratching it behind its ears and laughing a bit.

(Please come home soon.)

iv.

When Aziraphale comes home, jetlagged and tired and suitcases that stumble through the doorway as he sighs and takes off his scarf and coat and hat, and he thinks he’s alone with no welcoming committee and thinks that maybe that’s alright.

(He won’t admit, that he was a little upset by this.

Just a little.)

It starts to rain outside and he sighs, moves into the living room where there’s a open scrapbook on the coffee table and one sleeping Crowley with a black cat curled up on his chest and Aziraphale can’t help but smile and adjust his glasses before moving to cover them both with a old woolen duvet that was draped hap hazardly over one of the armchairs.

He doesn’t expect Crowley to be awake, but he is, and he grabs Aziraphale’s arm and tugs him down for a kiss, and Cat doesn’t seem to be bothered by this, only continues to purr and sleep away and it’s a muttered

“Welcome home” 

against Aziraphale’s lips and he smiles and laughs a bit and it’s Crowley with messed up sleep-hair and a black cat curled on his chest and Aziraphale's tired and wary but it’s warm, and it’s an open scrapbook with pictures of them from all those years ago, and maybe, just maybe 

\- this was home, and nothing felt better than coming home.


End file.
